


London Bridge is Falling Down

by theyalwayssay



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Kidnapping, M/M, OC, Original Character - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-22
Updated: 2013-08-22
Packaged: 2017-12-24 08:22:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/937756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theyalwayssay/pseuds/theyalwayssay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unexpected herald of surprising news arrives at 221b.</p>
            </blockquote>





	London Bridge is Falling Down

The flat had been relatively quiet. It was amazing how much work John had been able to accomplish without Sherlock around, banging around on a new experiment or playing the violin constantly or creating some other form of ruckus. Not that he didn’t adore him, quite the opposite, in fact. But there was nothing quite like being able to actually get some work done. He really should force Sherlock to do the shopping more often.

There was a sharp snap as the door closed behind someone entering the building. For a moment, John assumed that Mrs. Hudson must have been out with some friends and had returned, but judging by the sound of heavy, steady footsteps on the staircase, there was no way it could be her. Well, he had finished enough work for one day.

“Back already, Sherlock?” John asked resignedly, spinning his chair around to look at his flatmate. “Did you manage to remember everything on the list like you…”

John’s mouth fell open.

The person standing before him looked exactly like Sherlock in every way, except for a few key differences. There was the size of the chest, which was substantial. There were the eyelashes, which were long. And then, there was the gender, which was obviously female.

“Dr. John Watson,” The girl said, pulling a gun out of a hip holster. “My name is Beatrix Adler,” She cocked the gun against her hip, staring down at him with ice blue eyes.  
“And where the hell is my father?”  
***  
“What did you say your name was again?” John asked, leaning back in his chair.

“Beatrix Adler.”

“Why have you come here?” Sherlock asked, staring up at the mysterious girl over his hands, clasped in front of his lips.

“I was told that one of you would know where I could find my father,” Beatrix said, running a hand through her dark curly hair and sitting down in the chair that usually belonged to Sherlock. “Forgive me, but it’s been a long few months, and I’m not exactly leaving until I get an answer from you two.”

“Why didn’t she tell me that she had a daughter?” Sherlock muttered, more to himself than to either of the room’s occupants.

“Who?” John asked.

“My mother. Irene Adler,” Beatrix said, staring up at Sherlock with his eyes. He stared back at her, turquoise ice boring into blue diamond. Two pairs of eyes, four irises exactly the same.

“And I don’t believe that I was really any of your business, Mr. Holmes. Especially not when my father doesn’t exactly appreciate the fact that I exist.”

“And who is your father?” Sherlock asked, gazing at her in that oh so Sherlock way that clearly showed that he knew what was going on.

“Wait, what?” John asked, looking around at him. “You honestly can’t tell? Jesus Christ, Sherlock, you must be joking.”

“Are you saying that you know who it is?” The detective countered.

“Well, come on! Just look at her!” John said, directing a hand towards the female Sherlock sitting in front of him. “She looks exactly like you! There isn’t even the slightest difference!”

“Besides the fact that I’m a girl,” Beatrix said, folding her arms over her chest and glaring at John.

“And the fact that I have never done anything that would cause a child with my DNA to enter the world,” Sherlock added.

“And I would be happy to tell you who my father is, although watching you try to guess is very amusing.”

“I…Well, come on then. Who is it?” John asked, sounding slightly exasperated.

“The hair,” Sherlock said quietly.

“Excuse me?” Beatrix replied coolly.

“You’re most certainly not exactly like me,” Sherlock said, leaning forward. “You have some similar traits, yes, but you are not a carbon copy. Your hair isn’t naturally curled. There’s split ends, heat damage. There’s also signs of it being dyed, the roots indicating that your natural hair colour is lighter. Your skin is a different shade, your eyebrows a different shape. And, for another thing, you haven’t let go of that umbrella since you walked into this flat.” He smiled.

Beatrix turned, smiling, the see John’s flabbergasted face. “My father,” She said, leaning back in the chair, “is the British government.”

There was silence.

“Mycroft,” John whispered. Beatrix grinned, and Sherlock chuckled slightly.

“No,” John said emphatically. “No!”

“Yes,” Beatrix replied, grinning at the reaction she had elicited from him.

“But…But your mother is Irene…”

“Yes.”

“But that means that Irene Adler and Mycroft Holmes…no.”

“If it’s any consolation, Dr. Watson, you’re taking it much better than my father did when she told him. You’d think someone had just told him that tea had been made an illegal substance.”

Sherlock smiled behind his interlaced fingers.

“Are you refraining from laughing, Uncle?” Beatrix asked. Sherlock’s eyebrows shot up at the use of the title. “There’s no need to deny yourself. God knows I laugh whenever Mother tells the story.”

“I did wonder why Moriarty didn’t call him ‘The Virgin’ as well,” Sherlock mumbled. “But there’s still the matter of why and how.”

“My father has always been a great lover of beauty and power, a fact of which I’m sure you’re aware of,” Beatrix began, sitting forward and looking at Sherlock as though trying to figure out whether he was lying to her. “Due to my mother having copious amounts of both, the time came when my father became a lover to beauty and power. Quite a short-term relationship, I promise you, and my mother hadn’t started her business yet, but naturally there was a bit of an uproar. I’m sure you recall him mentioning to you a few scandals that my mother has caused in her lifetime when you took up her case about five years ago. However, I’m fairly certain he neglected to mention that he was directly related to one of those said scandals. Of course, it’s all been hushed up sense then. Father has ways of keeping things quiet. And that’s really all I know about the whole thing, besides it happening about sixteen years ago. As for the how, ask my mother if you really want all the grisly details.” She smiled. “I’m sure that she’d be more than happy to tell you, Uncle. She seems to like you. I was told that you got her out of a bit of trouble about four years ago.”

“And how old are you now?”

“I’ll be 21 in a month.”

“The similarity is striking, really,” Sherlock Holmes said, getting to his feet and beginning to rotate around his niece. “Truly astounding. You hardly contain a single one of Mycroft’s physical traits, and those you did get were easy enough to cover up. You got off quite easy, it appears.”

“Now wait a minute,” John said, leaning forward. “Beatrix, you told me when you first came in that you were looking for your father.”

Sherlock looked up, stopping his circumnavigation around Beatrix, who had stopped smiling.

“Yes,” She said quietly. “Yes, I did.”

“Beatrix…” Dr. John Watson cleared his throat slightly. “Where is Mycroft?”

It was a few moments before the girl spoke. She ran a hand through her hair again, crossed her legs, and leaned forward conspiratorially.

“I’ve come,” She said, without looking at Sherlock, “to ask for your assistance, not as a family member, but as a client. Mother has mentioned to me that it’s useless trying to play the sympathy card on you, so I won’t waste my valuable time to attempt it. I have reason to believe that my father has gone missing. He was last seen boarding a helicopter headed for Monaco a week ago. However, I have been… presented with certain knowledge that points towards the conclusion that the plane was hijacked somewhere along its voyage, and that my father is being held captive, if not already dead.”

She looked up now at the world’s only consulting detective, who had rotated around the back of the chair and now situated himself beside John, his face passive as he stared down at her. “I do hope that you can find it in your heart to assist me, Mr. Holmes,” Beatrix said, emphasizing the last few words. “I spent all the money that I had on the flight from America, and my father has made it very clear to the chosen few to whom he has divulged my existence that, should I arrive in London, I will not receive any outstanding benefits. My father may be the British government, but unfortunately it doesn’t come with any remuneration,” She smiled ruefully. “I have come to you in my time of need, Uncle, and I do hope that you will help me, at the very least for the sake of your brother.”

Sherlock looked at her, his hands clasped behind his back. Beatrix looked up into the bright blue eyes that she knew so well, as they were the same eyes as hers. They operated rather like two-way mirrors or tinted windows, allowing the owner of the blue glass to look out upon the world, but not letting anyone else see inside. Perhaps, Beatrix thought, it was the body’s way of hiding the fact that oftentimes, outstanding intellect was nothing more than smoke and mirrors and knowing how to put on a convincing show; all skills that she was more than familiar with. Normally, she enjoyed watching people attempt to be intelligent. She loved to watch them dance. But there was too much at stake now. She needed to believe. She had to trust Sherlock Holmes.

“What evidence did you receive regarding my brother’s disappearance?” Sherlock said finally. “And, more importantly, why has no news come up about it? Your father is perhaps one of the most influential people in Britain. The idea of no one going out and looking for him is laughable.”

“This,” Beatrix said, pulling out a worn piece of paper from her pocket, “Was lying outside the door of my house four days ago.”

She held out the thick paper, letting it fall open on the hinge of the well-worn crease in the center.

The air in the flat turned icy as Sherlock Holmes’s blood ran cold. Taped to the paper was a bloodstained bullet, and above that was scrawled the phrase, in lead-black ink,  
IOU

"I think that answers your question."


End file.
